ion.

"The two torpedo craft in Santiago harbor could do a great deal of
damage if they were properly handled," I ventured. "They are
magnificent vessels of their class. Look what Cushing did with a slow
steam launch and a powder can on the end of a stick."

"The case was different."

"Yes, but----"

"Cushing was an American," interrupted the boy convincingly.

There was silence for awhile and we lolled in the port, gazing idly at
the black spots in the gloom representing the blockading fleet. Between
us and the shore was the "New Orleans," the faint tracery of her masts
just showing above the distant background of the hills. The dampness in
the air had increased, and a dash of rain came in the open port.

"What were you doing at the mast this morning, 'Kid'?" I asked by way of
variety.

"Had a mustering shirt in the lucky bag."

I heard the boy chuckle. There was an escapade behind the remark.

"You know that wardroom Jap with the bad eye?"

"Yes."

"It was his shirt."

"But how----"

"It was this way. You know how hard it has been to put up with
'government straight' as a steady diet, don't you?"

I nodded. As "government straight" meant the extremely simple bill of
fare provided by Uncle Sam, consisting of salt beef, pork, hardtack,
beans, and canned butter, with an occasional taste of dried fruit, I was
compelled to admit my acquaintance with it.

"Well, the other night I got to dreaming that I was back in New York,"
resumed "Kid." "I dreamt I dropped into a bang-up restaurant and ordered
beefsteak, fried potatoes, pie, and----"

A groan came from one of the gun's crew, who was within hearing, and
"Kid" lowered his voice.

"Hit him where he lived, I guess," he chuckled. "Well, I woke up so
hungry that I couldn't stand it any longer. I looked up the Jap and
struck him for a hand-out. He wanted a shirt, and I wanted something to
eat, and we made a bargain. I brought him my extra mustering shirt--it
was too large for me, anyway--and he gave me some bread and butter, cold
potted tongue, three bananas, and----"

"For mercy's sake, stow that," muttered a voice from back of the
gun-mount. "Don't we suffer enough?"

"That's 'Hand-Out' Hood," grinned "Kid." "He's kicking because he didn't
get it. Well, I gave the shirt to the Jap, and what did he do but lose
it. My name was on the collar, and 'Jimmy Legs' put me on the report.
The 'old man' was easy, though. Gave me four hours extra duty. I asked
hi